Parce que
by curiouslyfic
Summary: Harry blames the salad. Everyone else blames Harry. Featuring HD fluff, slash, Oblivious!Harry, bad salad, and appalling French. First two are PG, last chapter's NC17.
1. Parce que salad

Disclaimer: Not mine, Rowling's. You knew that.

Featuring: HD, fluff, slash, Oblivious!Harry, and appalling French.

_Part one of three _**_  
_**

**_ Parce que bad salad_**

Harry blames the salad. Something manky in the dressing, yeah? Must have been, because he, Harry James Potter, is taking absolutely ages to say, "Sod off, git, I'm not doing it," even though he knows full well he won't. Because, well, he doesn't, does he? Hasn't since, erm, he thinks maybe ever, really, yeah?

Yeah. Might be a git—is if it's Malfoy talking, at least—but he's no dancing git, a delineation clear even if the rest of the room's not quite.

"Haven't since Yule Ball," Ron supplies, far too helpful under the circumstance. Harry slants him a glare. Hopes it contains the depth and breadth of his frustration. Ron shrugs. Says, "Wouldn't kill you, would it?" like that's all there is to it, just dying or not.

Then Harry shakes his head and Ron turns into Malfoy, who says, "Never mind, Potty, I rescind my offer. Longbottom, shall we?"

Neville bites his lip and Harry thinks he's smiling, and Malfoy won't hold still, won't stop fucking glowing in the shitty club light, and when Harry blinks, he stumbles and Malfoy catches his arm.

Only it's not Malfoy. S'freckly. Ginger. Harry blinks again, holds his hands out for balance in this crazy, twisting world. Damn it, what was in that salad? Harry thinks it's mixing absolute pants with the wine.

"Ease up there, Slugger," Ron says, and Harry checks freckles to be sure. Ron quirks a brow. "What? Practicing my American, aren't I? Going across the pond for a visit, yeah?" Ron's face sours. Harry wonders if he's had the salad, too. He'd ask—no point in suffering twisting gut and wobbly world alone if he's a mate to share it with, yeah?—but Ron's off, on about 'Mione and Percy and something Ron's calling the Wheeze Chair of Mayhem, which is somehow connected with Salem this year and couldn't you knock Ron with a feather them if Yanks had it in 'em?

Harry leans back in his chair. Topples. Ron catches him before he falls, and this time, Ron looks like Malfoy.

"S'it that you can't dance, Potty, or that you won't?"

Harry lifts his head from that pleasant face-burrow in his nesting arms. Finds shiny glowy git tapping the table across from him. Impatience? Maybe. Harry's head weighs loads. He burrows again.

This doesn't stop the conversation.

"Right plastered, that one," Malfoy says and yes, yes, that's Malfoy, even if he's not hexing Harry hairless or what have you.

"Sure you want to do this, Draco?" Neville asks. "He's not easy when he's like this."

Ron, the traitor, agrees. Harry has no clue why that's traitorous, but he thinks it must be. Gits. No loyalty at all, the lot of them, talking t' Malfoy and whatnot, feeding Harry bad salad.

"Should've been in Hufflepuff," he says.

"Yes, Potty, because you're so very lowered expectations," someone says, and Harry laughs until he realizes it's Malfoy.

He picks his head up again and scowls. "S'the salad." Message delivered, Harry slumps back. Someone catches him, warm hand on his back. Nice. He doesn't want to think about whose.

"Leave the Hufflepuffs alone," Neville says, and Ron adds, "Yeah, they've enough just being Hufflepuffs."

Harry snorts. The hand rubs in comforting little pats. Harry relaxes.

Then Malfoy murmurs, "If you're serious, Potty, all you've to do is say no. Know you can do that, don't I? Don't even need the whole sentence, just two little letters and I'll shove off. Say no, Harry. C'mon, say no."

Harry sighs. Feels the salad settle, no world wobbling, nothing twisting in his gut, just Malfoy murmuring sweet no things in his ear and someone rubbing his back. Harry's head slumps to one side, leaving him room to peer at Malfoy.

"No," he says, and he's smiling.

The hand stops. Malfoy leans back. Looks solemn and serious and Harry doesn't like it. Neither, it seems, does the salad, because Harry's gut twists again. Damn it.

"All right," Malfoy says, and it sounds so…final. "Been nice knowing you, Potty. Do stay out of trouble, yeah? No more Dark Lord collecting. Weasley, Longbottom. See you blokes around."

And Malfoy stands. To leave. And Ron and Neville stop talking to stare at Harry, who feels remarkably like even the salad's pissed with him and wanting to depart in revolt. This is Not Good.

"Wait," Harry says, mostly to the salad, because he'll die if he hurls on Malfoy's shoes. Which are very pretty. Erm.

Malfoy does. They all do, still and staring, waiting for Harry to…something. Yes, yes, he's meant to do something now. Something more than not hurl, he gathers. Say something, he supposes, and allows, "You've very pretty shoes."

Well, that was brilliant, even for him. He slumps back down, thumps his forehead off his arms, and tries to remember how Apparation starts because Merlin Almighty, he wants to be somewhere else.

"Sweet Merlin, Nev, I thought you said you had this sorted," someone snaps. Harry peeks. Sees Zabini, all hand-waving emphasis, toe-to-toe with Neville, who looks apologetic.

"Thought we did, mate," Ron says, saving Neville like he didn't save Harry. "Just, _someone_ found the Firewhisky and didn't bother to say until he'd already hit the wine."

"He's a bit impossible when he's been drinking," Neville apologizes, and Harry frowns.

"The salad," he says, because someone has to. Blaise looks at him like he's something out of Hagrid's class after a unit test, small and pathetic and liable to be put down for his own good.

This, Harry thinks, is not progress.

"Well whatever's happened, he's leaving in a minute, and he won't be back," Blaise snaps.

"Good," Harry says, because for some reason, Ron's not. "Lowering the tone of the place, wrecking a bloke's pint, making loose with the salad." Harry wavers a hand to mime making loose.

Ron sighs. Blaise scowls. Neville says, "Well, you've no need to worry about it anymore, then, Harry, as he'll be lowering the tone and wrecking pints in Canada come morning."

And that's when Harry gets it. Looks to Neville, who's never lied to him, who's never let him down, and says, "We're not talking about Malfoy," because he needs to hear that they aren't.

They are.

Harry's salad lodges in his throat. He quite nearly makes it the loo in time for the exodus.

"I knew?" Harry asks, weakly.

Neville nods. "S'why we're here, yeah?" Ron says. "See him off proper, like."

"Only we thought…" Neville trails off. Looks away. How Harry knows he's blown it.

He nods. Knows what they thought, and why, and he leans back over the toilet again because he needs to. Can't remember eating this much, let alone this much salad, and wonders mildly if it's turned the rest of his stomach against him.

Stupid rebelling salad. Stupid leaving Malfoy.

Stupid stupid Harry.

Ron hands him damp paper for his face. Neville flushes again. And Harry, Harry steels himself for a rough go of it and says, "Back later, yeah? Got a Malfoy to see."

Malfoy's leaving. _Leaving_, the git, and he hasn't said all night. Just…No, Harry can't think that, has to settle on what he knows.

And what he knows is this: Malfoy's faffing off to Canada come morning, and Harry's blown every chance he's ever had, and there's a pointy-pale-pretty bloke snapping at Blaise, and Harry thinks there's a God.

Harry doesn't know what's on his face, but whatever it is stops Blaise's argument cold. He waves uselessly in Harry's direction to tip Malfoy off, but it's too late, Harry's too fast, he's got Draco's shirt in his fists and he's pulling in tight and Draco, Draco just stares.

"Thought you said no, Potter," Draco says, and he sounds tired. Looks worse than.

"You're not leaving."

Draco blinks. Harry's not sure why he's Draco now, but he is, and he's not leaving, Harry won't let him. Can't, really, Harry's not prepared to cope with life Malfoyless, hasn't he coped with enough, can't he just have this one consistency in his days? S'not so much to ask.

"We've been through this," Draco says slowly, like Harry's hard of hearing. "I'm unemployable, living on Pansy's couch and Blaise's mercy. There's nothing for me here, Potter. Nothing." He says this staring straight into Harry's eyes. Harry thinks they burn. "I know you don't like me, but I'm not…I'm allowed to have something, yeah? And I can't here, so…Je suis Canadien."

Harry thinks. It's hard, what with the wobbly world and rebelling gut—did he not leave that salad in the loo? Really, he's sure he did—but he's got Malfoy there to steady him, Draco there to keep him up. "Say that again."

"Which part?"

"All of it."

"Potter," Draco says, and looks away, and Harry doesn't like that, not having steely eyes in his, so he uses his free hand to draw Draco's jaw back.

Draco's jaw feels nice.

"Again," Harry says, this time pleading. Draco shuts his eyes. Says, "There's noth—" and Harry swallows Draco's words because he doesn't want to hear them.

Draco's stiff against him, body rigid, cock erect, slim little Malfoy with his pretty pointy face and his shiny black clothes and his wee narrow hips and his sturdy broad shoulders. Harry wants him closer. Cups Draco's neck, palm over spine, fingers curled in soft blond hair, and falls into the feeling.

Draco doesn't move. Harry thinks that's a shame, this feels brilliant, but he pulls away a little to catch his breath. Rests his forehead on Draco's and searches out silver.

Draco's not smiling, which makes Harry very aware that he is.

"You taste like sick-up," Draco says with curious detachment.

"Drank a bit," Harry says. "A rather lot, actually. Didn't…you're leaving."

"Yes."

"No. You're not. But you were. And I…" Harry trails off. Waves a hand and scrunches his face because he can't go further, has to trust Draco to provide as he's trusted Ron and Hermione and Neville.

Draco frowns. "Oh, no, Potty." His fist feels good clutching Harry's shoulder. Like that hand on his back who-knows-how-long-ago. "That one you finish. You can't let that sentence hang, damn it, it's not bloody fair."

"Don't go," Harry says. "I don't want you to go."

"That's not your choice to make."

"Isn't it?" And Harry's kissing him again, tongue at Draco's crease, lips working against his, pleading and prying and searching entry.

And Draco gives.

"Say it again," Harry says six months later.

Draco raises his brows. "_Je suis Canadien_."

Harry scrunches his face. Says, "_Je suis Cand-yen_," just to see Draco snort-smile.

"Cor, Potty, you're worse than Neville in Potions. Git."

"_Parce-que je ne suis __Cand-yen pas_, only just married there," Harry mutters, and Draco laughs as he pulls them back to bed.

Montreal can wait. They've their wedding night ahead and Harry's feeling just fine, he's skipped the salad and all…


	2. Parce que patience

Disclaimer: Not mine. Still Rowling's.

Warnings: HD slash, fluff, Oblivious!Harry, frustrated!Draco

_**Parce que patience**_

Everything's peachy until he starts on about salads, at which point you think, "Sod it, I'm going to _have_ to go to Canada now."

Like actually _go_. Which is not in your plan, despite what you've said.

You eye him wearily. "Salad?" It's all you can do not to add, "Scarhead" to that, some sort of reminder who it is he's speaking to. He smiles like you're Weasley. Frowns like you're both fourteen.

Harry Potter, you think, will drive you spare.

He's already driving you to Canada.

Ten months of planning, greatest minds of your Slytherin year working day and night, all tossed because he's misjudged a menu. Pansy'll have your head when she hears.

"Never mind, Potty, I rescind my offer." Like you'd've settled for just a dance, anyway.

You dance with Longbottom because he will. You're sure he thinks Potter's watching, Potter's working up one of his famous jealousies, but you doubt it. Potter can barely hold his head up, let alone focus on anything as far as the dance floor.

No, no; dancing with Longbottom is face-saving, a bit, because you've clearly come cross-club to ask someone and it wouldn't do to leave without a partner. It's also goodbye, as much as you're able. Damn it, you hadn't counted on actually requiring goodbye tonight.

This, you suppose, is what you get for trying to predict Potter.

"He's…" Longbottom trails off, squints uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Draco. He's not himself tonight." Longbottom's risked smile is small and verbose, sliding optimism where experience says there's none to be found. You've always thought this a Hufflepuff trait but when it comes to Potter, even the Gryffindors fall victim.

You have, yourself. It's how you came to be, theoretically, going to Canada come morning, yeah? A misjudgement you'll pay for in pride or comfort for years yet, you're sure.

"No," you say faintly, because Longbottoms — Gryffindors — require words where Slytherins do not. "He's precisely himself."

You don't explain that, how mucking up something relatively simple and patently obvious is part of Potter's persona, but with his friends, you don't need to. Longbottom knows.

"Just give it one more try," Longbottom pleads. _Pleads_. You close your eyes to hide what you're about to do from your Malfoy pride. "Draco, please, you know he'll hate himself for this come morning."

Despite yourself, you do.

It goes no better. This time, you're working on Potter's general disdain for instruction. He's a contrary bastard, for which you love him dearly, and nothing bypasses his control like putting words in his mouth.

"Say no," you say. Croon it, really, into his ear. Rub his back because you love touching him, because it seems to be soothing him. He's lovely and pliant and easy this way, and you lay it on thick in advance of how brilliant it will feel when he throws it in your face.

You can't wait.

"C'mon, Harry, say no." You can already hear him snap yes.

He lolls his messy dark head to one side. Smiles beatific. Says, "No," clearer than he's said anything else all night.

Well, that tops it. You've nothing left but goodbyes now. Them and the prospect of Canada.

"Wait," he says as you finish swallowing your intentions, and like a complete git, you feel yourself hope. He's brought you low, lower than you can remember being for anything else, and you think it's astonishingly Slytherin of him to have waited this long to give in.

Then he tells you you have very pretty shoes and you want to die.

Blaise doesn't ask how it went. Has no need, not if you're back at your table already. Instead, he says, "Care for another?" like when he leaves he'll actually be heading to the bar.

You pity the Gryffindors, who've a plastered Potter to mind and are about to inherit a zealous Zabini to fend off. Then, because you can, because you need extra time to plot how you'll avoid Canada — other side of the world, for fuck's sakes, what were you thinking? — you feed Blaise the latest offense. "I've pretty shoes," you say. "Very pretty shoes. Did you know?"

He stares a bit. Gawks, really, and were he anything but Slytherin you'd mock him for it. Then night falls on his expression and he charges off in high dudgeon.

Oh, how you pity the Gryffindors.

Your undying, patently obvious _thing_ for Potter has become the subject of much speculation among your strange social circle. Having established that you are, in fact, interested, your friends debate the obstacle that's holding you back from what they've decided would be the most entertaining courtship in wizarding England.

Everyone's got a theory, all of them shit. Granger thinks it's that you're bent, something she doubts would have met your father's approval. Weasley thinks it's that it's a Gryffindor, essentially the anti-Slytherin house. Girl Weasley thinks it's that you could have anyone you want, anyone at all, so why commit just yet? Blaise thinks it's that it's Harry Bloody Potter, because Blaise dormed with you during the unfortunate rival Seeker days. Longbottom thinks it's that it's the Boy Who Lived because Neville knows you best from the war, when you were prone to pointing out idolizing the who BWL lark was a pig-ignorant way to deal with the situation.

Lovegood thinks it's Nargles. You don't need her reasons.

Pansy refrains from theorizing, you think because she's probably got it sorted. S'none of those things, not any of them.

She waits until the last of the wine's gone, the circle breaking off for the night, then reaches out for your hand. Squeezes and says, "It's that he hasn't shown any interest back, yeah?"

But he has. And _that_'s the problem. He bends you over with his gaze every time he sees you, devours you whole and strips you bare and makes you ache. He couldn't show more interest if he tried, and he's obviously aware of yours.

No, what's holding your peace is that no matter how combustible you are together, he's yet to make a move. You've spent ten months planning, trying to corner him into something, and it's not worked yet.

This_still_ wouldn't be enough to keep you quiet, but he's Harry Potter and you're Draco Malfoy, and if you corner him to offer any of the things you both want to offer, he turns suspicious. Thinks you're plotting. You've already tried and he runs. He's like that with everything now, snapped by the pressure and praise that came with defeating Dark Git, and you don't mind that he runs from the _Prophet_ like Skeeter's Inferius, but you're decidedly less keen on him running from you.

First time you asked him to dinner, he brought a bezoar. First time you cornered him at Longbottom's, he hit you with a Stupefy before you'd said six words and spent the rest of the night apologizing by proxy. Your every early attempt at civil conversation brought out subjects you'd rather have never discussed. Your father, the war, Dumbledore, the war, the Dark Git, the war, your curious friendship with Longbottom, the war. Then, one fine day, he'd stopped. Started conversing like a normal bloke — well, as normal as Potter ever got, it _was_ still Potter — and you'd thought maybe this was progress.

Hadn't stopped the running. So you'd thought _that_ was his answer, clearer than the bezoar, kinder than the Stupefy. But…but the looks. You've tried and honestly, you've no other explanation for those.

So you can't make your move as overtly as he requires because he doesn't sodding trust you and if you force things on him, a decision either way, it might go in your favour but it'll hobble things before they're started, your fantastic history of mutual distrust, so you can't. All you can do is wait for him to have a clue.

Or a little of that courage he's so famous for. Gryffindor courage, you think, may have been exaggerated.

He disappears with Longbottom and Weasley after the shoe debacle, and Blaise loiters by the bar in what's obviously deep, wrenching thought. He's had no more success than you have, you suspect, for all he's roughed up the Gryffindors to do it, and right now he's buying time to find a way to tell you.

You've no drink nearby and no desire to dance anymore, so you loiter at your table and ponder Canada, clearly your largest tactical error.

You're sure it's a lovely country, really, but you'd Crucio to stay where you are.

Harry Potter's never been one for action like he has for reaction. Pushed beyond reason by his stubborn refusal to meet you halfway in this torrid, fruitless flirtation, you decide to provoke that reactionary side.

Announce you've plans to relocate. Canada, you say when someone asks, because it's far off and as ruddy foreign as you can picture in the moment. Yes, yes, Canada, where they've tea and beavers and…well, you don't know what Canada has, really, but you're sure it's something you might theoretically enjoy. Were, y'know, you actually planning to visit.

You know Potter hears because he looks at you strange from that point on, like he's been stung by you before and fully expects a repetition.

Frustratingly, all he does is look. The clock runs down and now your time's up.

Blaise, when you tell him, looks like you've lost the plot.

"_That_'s your brilliant fucking plan, Draco? Christ Almighty — " And he covers one side of his face with a palm, squeezes his eyes like just looking at you hurts. Breathes deep for composure, then tries again as mild-mannered Zabini. "I'll send you with mitts, then. Hear it's cold there, yeah? Ridiculous git." He shakes his head.

You think about explaining how things are between you and Potter. How he keeps his distance and those ruddy inescapable molesting looks. How your best hope was to draw a line in the sand, set a bar for him to hit. He'll say goodbye tonight and you'll know for sure it won't ever be anything more than looks, no matter how steamy, or he'll make you stay.

"Ta for the mitts," you say instead, because going through all that, your motivations, is too much to consider.

He blinks at you like Weasley did when you started hanging out with Neville, like you're some strange spectre of someone he once knew. You half-expect him to accuse you of Polyjuice consumption. Weasley did. Imperio may also have been involved. You're fuzzy on those sorts of details. Couldn't take your mind much off Potty and the incredibly edible way he'd grown since offing the Dark Git.

"What about the rest of us?" Blaise asks, eyes burning. You raise your brows, because what does he think you'll do with that question? "You'll piss off to Canada to spite Potter and just what, leave the rest of us here because we don't matter?"

Not for nothing have you been living on Pansy's couch and Blaise's mercy. "You matter."

"Not so much as Potter," he counters, and you've nothing to say to that. It's not true, not really, but that it is. It strikes you then that you've made yet another appalling choice, wagering solid mates on the banked heat in Potter's eyes. This really shouldn't surprise you, as you've a history of bad choices. A history, you think on philosophical flush, with no place in Canada. For the first time all night, you ponder optimistically the prospect of a fresh start.

It's as distant as it ever is.

Then Blaise says, "Never mind, then, he's — " And someone's grabbing you. Turning you.

Potter. You know those eyes, red-rimmed though they are. Know that painfully earnest expression, that dragged-through-hell flush. He fists your shirt, moves in close enough to keep things private between you without coming close enough to inspire hope.

As it turns out, just AK eyes are enough for you anyway. Pathetic creature. You feel Veela without the bloodline and want desperately to sneer, snarl, something that will grant dignity. It doesn't come.

"Thought you said no," you say, pithy as you please. You'll remember that beatific smile forever, the sex you never had.

He tells you you're not leaving and he's got a queer sort of madness in his eyes, something hectic and wild you really want to blame on Firewhisky. Potter riled is truly spectacular, all glittering eyes and fiendish vehemence. That shag you never had would have been through the mattress.

You set him to rights. Not the whole of the plan, Merlin, no, if Blaise didn't understand it, Potter stands no chance, but enough of your life to offer calm logic. Practical purpose, the backbone of any good Slytherin tale.

Throw in a bit of French, yeah, because you're dead sexy when you speak it and if you're getting nowhere with Potter after all this time, he'll know what he's missed.

Predictably, he gapes, pretty mouth working like moving too-bitten lips somehow spurs his thought process. You trace the faint line between his brows with your gaze, set each small frustrated sign to memory because come morning, you won't have it again.

"Say that again," he says, and you barely hear him, wrapped in the sudden sinking sickly realization that this, _this_ is goodbye. No more Potter. No more looks, no more taunts, no more..._Fuck. _

"Which part?" You wonder if he hears your voice crack. You do, Blaise does, but Harry — he's Harry now, has to be, you're saying sodding_goodbye_, you're a special breed of idiot — Harry's pissed and baffled and adorable.

Says, "All of it," and you think _Triple fuck_ and try to hide and hear yourself call him "Potter" for distance you don't fucking feel, and when you look away for self-preservation, he touches you.

Draws you back.

Pleads.

You can't even look. He's just too _Harry_ and the weight of your leaving's finally trampled your hope, and if you were dead sexy in French, he's dead sexy in earnest. If you look just one second longer, you'll move in fast, kiss him while he's right there, and you can't leave that way, but you can't stay either, not unless he's…

"Again," he says, so close you feel his breath against your mouth. You try because it's him, just words, not hard, but he stops you before you've made it three syllables.

And your knees melt because he's stopped you with his mouth.

You've imagined kissing Harry Potter. You're dead brilliant at imagining kissing Harry Potter, actually, you've loads of experience here. Angry, frustrated, soft, careful, tentative, insistent, awkward, you've done them all.

Failed to quite grasp the brilliance of combination, though.

He's pissed and it's sloppy, all knocking teeth and misplaced tongues and fumbling grip on the scruff of your neck. He tastes like sick-up, which you'll tell him later but which knots your stomach with implications. It's long and varied, hard and pressing when it starts, gentling to a soft sort of wonder when the lack of maidenly hexing registers, then heats up at the realization that you're both kissing each other.

All told, a lovely, lovely cycle, and you'll severely hex anyone twat enough to interrupt.

He's warm and hard against you, and you itch to close the remaining space because Salazar, haven't you had teasing enough? Surely it's time for a little Slythindor contact. Fuck's sakes, you've been closer pinning each other to walls in Hogwarts.

You run out of breath first, but when you inhale, it's all Harry-scented and it hits you like nip to a Veela. Possibly your eyes roll to white. Probably you moan. Every bastard in the world should envy the fuck out of you for how good Harry smells, how brilliant Harry kisses, even when he's making a right mash of it.

When he pulls back to breathe, you whimper. He rests his temple against yours, holds his clutch on your body as though he's afraid Canada's coming to steal you away now he's finally grown a pair.

"You taste like sick-up," you say because you _know_ and you think he should know you do.

He fumbles through proof you're right, that mid-kiss realization of why he's tossed back more alcohol tonight than he does through the Death to Dark Git festivities. Fumbles, and trails off at a crucial moment.

Because you could cheerfully throttle him for mucking up yet again, moments after that snog no less, you call him Potty when you force him to finish. "You can't let that sentence hang, damn it, it's not bloody fair."

Because you, you were willing to go to Canada to knock sense into him. The least he can do is cobble a thought.

"Don't go," he says. "I don't want you to go."

You should leave it there, accept that you've the answer you wanted, but you're not as easy as all that. "That's not your choice to make."

"Isn't it?" And Merlin, don't you know that flash in Potty's eyes, the one that says you're about to be crushed under Potty's newest fixation, and if the thickness pressing against your thigh is any indication, for once you're actually looking forward to it.


	3. Parce que Potter

Disclaimer: Still not mine. Still Rowling's.

Warnings: And here is the smut. Explicit smut. Slashy smut. Enjoy or go back.

**_Parce que Potter_**

Now that he's made the first move, so to speak, you're free to retaliate. You've always been slyer than him, prone to wild-hair plans that derail, turn physical, once Harry's involved. Kissing you in public, fumbling his words before blatant attack, that's Potter straight through.

Apparating you both to your bedroom, pinning him to a wall to snog the breath from him, that's all you.

He leans back. Lets you do as you please, and you know what's behind his submission because, Merlin, isn't it behind yours as well? Though if you're both submissive — and isn't that an odd state of affairs for you both? — you don't imagine you'll get far. You take control because someone has to.

Hit him with a half-dozen surreptitious Sobrietuses, which might be overkill but you're not having him crawl out of bed in morning blaming bottled anything for what's happened and Salazar, wasn't he already blaming food items for his inanity?

And if you choose to distract him from the rapid-firing casting sparking your wand by rubbing at his, well, that's just Slytherin sleight of hand, isn't it?

He moans so pretty when you suck at his throat, you raise your hands to his waist to rip at his shirt. He dresses a right nightmare and tonight's no exception, so you've no remorse at all for tearing it from him, stripping him bare.

You think you might have been doing the wizarding world a favour. Glance at his naked chest and know you've done one for yourself.

He doesn't look overtly bulky, which is good, you like the way his strength hides itself under lacklustre attire because you know it's there and no one else needs to. You run your hands over his chest, feel warm silk skin flecked with dark hair grain. Discover his dips and ridges through tactile exploration, and he melts under your hands.

"Malfoy," he says. "Draco."

You bite at his mouth. A nip, really, but you love the husk in his voice, the way it breaks his gasp at the contact.

"Belt up, Potty," you say, and take what sting he'll find from the words with a swipe of your tongue. It's sour and liquored, not something you'd ordinarily consider consuming, but it's Potter's mouth and it tastes as it does because he's driven himself to nausea at the thought of you leaving, so it's all right, it's all right.\

His hand's at your back, fingers splayed to press you close like you've need of encouragement _now_, but it's warm through your clothing, real and solid and male, and you like it near as much as you like how his heavy breath rushes against your cheek when you turn to lap his ear.

"Draco, please," he says, and arches into you like a trollopy cat, so you wind your hips against him, rub your chest against his in what you hope feels like all-encompassing tease.

There's something addictive about his throat. Once you start in on it, you don't want to leave, want to just suck and taste and bite there until he's as Marked as you are, only he's restless and shirtless and pulling at yours, too Gryffindor-noble to rend.

"Just rip it," you say, words pushed from behind gritted teeth when his erection rubs up your fly. He does. Palms what he finds, charting you like you're charting him, and you think you've both been far too sedate thus far.

You have to guide him to bed. Have to lay him back, and he's so uncommonly pliant you cast another Sobrietus just to be sure. When you try to look — just _look_ at him, dark hair on your pillow, long fingers clenching to nervous fists by his ears, tanned and honed and miraculously waiting for you to strip off and join him — when you try to appreciate all that as clearly you were meant to, he flutters those dark lashes. Peeks up over the rim of his horrid glasses, telling you silently you're taking too long.

Seems it takes forever to kick off your trainers, shimmy down the tiny, impossible zip on your trousers. You can't ever remember it taking this long, never so long as to irritate the body waiting, but at the same time, you're loath to lose the view.

Potter, you think, had best like lounging naked.

You tell him in French how it feels, kissing his chest, biting his nipples, licking his throat. You tell him in French because the words in English, they don't sound right. English seduction's a right laugh when there's choice, and you're dead sexy in French and you know it. Want to melt him with it, and you seem to be succeeding.

That's a lie. You tell him in French because he won't understand. You go Hufflepuff over him, go undeniably sappy, and he'd never understand if you said it in a language he understood, you're only just starting, s'not meant to feel like this already, you can't scare him off again, it'll break you if he runs now, you'll fucking go to Canada by _choice_ if he does. So you tell him in the most eloquent French you have how good he feels, how much you adore this, each burning brush over heated skin, each fumbling collision of mouths.

He keens a bit and plays into your hands.

You settle in over him like you belong there, poised over perfectly-made Potty, who's a bit ridiculous in his mangled hair and mangled mouth and speccy-git glasses. Undeniably yours, though, inescapably_himself_.

You tongue his navel, push in to rim it. He whimper-moans, squirms deliciously and frots your chest so delightfully, you say That Which You Should Not.

"_Je t'aime_, Potty," you murmur into warm, smooth belly and he stiffens a bit and you think, _Fuck, he speaks French?_ Because maybe it's dead simple translation, sodding basic this, but it's Harry, who's a Hippogriff in clover with language, even his own.

His fingers curl in your hair and when he tugs just right, you risk a flushed look up. Find him open-mouthed and panting, eyes bright and deliciously baffled. "Sorry?"

You can't say it again, so you say, "Erm, the Thames," even though that's bloody ludicrous. Fantastic, now you've picked up his mangled English, too. "_Je Thames_." And you can't quite believe you say that with a straight face.

"_Je Thames_, yes," he mangles oddly, like this is a perfectly rational time to be talking rivers, and you have to hide your laughter in his belly or risk offence. "Like the _River_ Thames?"

"S'French," you correct. Bite your lip to hide the snicker because you can read what he's thinking on his pretty face. _Is this some sort of Slytherin sex thing? Well, they did dorm under the lake, maybe…_

"Oh. What's it mean, then?"

You can't resist. "Big river. Mid-London."

"Don't have that in Canada," he mutters, and you're smirking when you dip your head back down.

His French is atrocious, _quelle surprise_, look what he does to English and that's his native tongue. You strongly suspect him the sole sot in recorded history to hiss "erm" in Parseltongue.

His horrid foray into a second language seems to inspire him, though, because he wants to give the words back, even if he's no clue what they mean. You lay your hand on his shaft through his trousers, give a light, affectionate squeeze of pride in his attempt.

"No French for you, Potty. S'awful."

"Sorry," he says, voice soft and crisp like fresh-picked apple. "Don't really speak it, yeah? But, erm, you sound so…and…" And his voice breaks when you flutter your fingers over him. He twitches to your touch. "S'nice, s'nice," he slurs.

"Lovely," you say, and you feel like diamonds. "A kink."

He flushes. You gnaw his hip to distract him from the fingers working his button and that tiny, particular zip at his fly. Every time you fumble even slightly, you brush his shaft again in feather-light touch and he squirms.

There's something unspeakably erotic about his eyes when your hand slides inside, lifts hard Potter cock from his pants with the Malfoy discerning eye for the pricelessly sublime.

"Draco," he says again, he's picked it up as prayer, you think. You spare a glance at the blushing flesh in your hand, long and pink and veiny, curve swooping left when you give leeway enough to allow. You watch Harry's prick, absorb yourself in this moment because…because Canada, you think. _Parce que_ Potter.

He twitches. His hand feels incredibly right in your hair, possessively non-threatening, and you breathe deep, content. Let wafting tang of musky sweat man Harry linger a moment before you kiss him hello right there, just there on his swollen head.

He shivers so hard you think maybe it's a shudder in disguise. The way he says your name's like honey, the way his grip tightens on your hair in reflex, all the permission you'll ever need.

You lick the veiny underside, wide swipes of broad tongue, root to tip and again and again until he's leaking, and when you stroke in counterpoint, you have to lean hard on his hips to keep them still. Touchy git, you think fond as you can, then you swirl your tongue over his glans, smearing Harry-leak over his head, over your tongue.

That's not French he's babbling, not even English, you don't think. Parseltongue, maybe, but mostly you think it's nonsense and you like that you've brought him that far on so very, very little. And because you can't take the waiting anymore and neither, apparently, can he, you swallow him deep in one neat bob of your head.

He arches up. Slams his hips high in hard thrust, hits back of your throat and stretches you wider than you expect and you love it. Fellatio you'll feel for ages.

"Sorry," he babbles, lowering his hips back in submission, all apologetic Potter. "Sorry, Draco, didn't mean…sorry, sorry, I'll…" and somehow, you understand that to mean, "don't stop, I'm a git, you've killed my self control, your mouth feels fucking brilliant," and because you like that, what he's almost-saying, you suck hard. Stroke his shaft with your inner cheeks as you pull back, lips a tight-ringed O, tongue flicking back over underside and head as you can.

Sucking Harry Potter goes precisely as you thought it would once he settles himself down again, and you rather miss the endearing lack of restraint when he slammed up into you. Leave it to Potter to find a new way of deep-throating…from the top.

You have no clue how long you suck him, just know that your jaw hurts and you've stretched your lips dry by the time he says, "Gon' come," his words broken on breathless syllables you don't piece together until he pulls you off him.

You look up at him, wait until you have his attention before you hike a brow.

"So do it," you say, and you have no clue what language you've used but he's flushed and absolutely breathtaking, baffled as ever and trying so hard to be good. You dip back down, engulf him again. Suck him like you're aiming for marrow.

He's in so deep, you don't taste it, just feel him pulse on your tongue, feel him shudder deliciously around you, muscles bunching as he does.

You swallow. Keep him in your mouth, gentle presses of tongue and quiet murmured hums until he's small and soft and limp. You kiss his body then, graze a nip at his hipbone and nuzzle into the hollow between them.

"Merlin, Malfoy," he says, dazed and sleepy. Yawns. You bite harder.

"Tsk, Potty, knackered already? Don't be this easy."

He stretches feline. Stifles a second yawn with the back of a fist but not, you notice, the one he's had in your hair. Like he doesn't want to let go, either. "That was…" And you think words are going to fail him again, they always do, until he says, "incredible."

His smile's fucking brilliant.

"Not done with you yet," you counter, but he waves you off with a harsh suck at your collarbone and Sweet Christ on a Nimbus, you think he's trying to eat you.

You are incredibly okay with that.

"Belt up, Malfoy," he counter-counters. Bites the hollow of your throat, which proves alarmingly more sensitive than you'd thought. "My turn for a go, yeah?"

"How utterly, fantastically romantic," you mutter and obviously he hears you, because he snickers a bit, but his mouth turns soft and careful as he works his way up.

When those pretty bitten lips are at your ear, he says, "S'that what you want, then? Romance?"

"Eventually." He licks the shell of your ear, which is astonishingly sensitive, too. Touches your jaw with fingers all disarmingly warm contact. Turns your face to his so you meet his eyes in what passes for steady, level stare. You highly doubt there's anything steady or level about either one of you but that's all right. "For now, I'd just like m'shag, thanks," you say to break the tension building again. He's pants with emotional anything and just now, you think, so are you.

He nods once, twice. "Good. Give me time to brush up on m'French."

His grin is absolutely ridiculous. You have no clue why you need to taste it, but you do.

He likes French like you like Parseltongue, and when he figures this out, he's insufferable. Hisses deep in your ear while he palms your cock and you've no clue what he's saying but you'll hex him if he stops.

You frot his hand. Love the way he feels, trapping you in a firm flesh cage, squeezing stroking twisting just so…yeah, maybe it's a wank, but it's one you couldn't give yourself in a million years, and you bury your face in his throat and do your best to drown in Harry.

_Hiss hiss hiss_, he goes on in your ear, pitched like it's a question, and when he stops to look wordless query at you, you whimper your complaint.

"Keep going," you say, gritted teeth again, something about Harry provokes it.

"Well?" he asks. First thing he's said in English in…you don't even know how long. You tell him so. Watch a flush bloom over his face again. "What do you want, Dra — Malfoy? Just there?" His grip tightens, a wicked blissful squeeze. "D'you want my hand?" Your breath catches. His hand's a marvel, far more coordinated than you'd thought possible of him. "My mouth?" His lips are so, so close to yours it's shameful there's not been more kissing. "My — " For the sake of your sanity, you cut him off.

"Arse," you tell his mouth on a ragged breath. "I want your arse."

His eyes widen. Fucking gleam with something, glassy bits of sparkle in his overheated face. "Yeah," he says and then he's kissing you again, open-mouthed everywhere he can reach without loosing that demanding grip on your shaft.

He feeds you three fingers, gnaws your shoulder and pulls at you harsh, no pattern or rhythm to the working of that hand but his own impatience. You suck his fingers like you sucked his prick but the shape's different so your seal is, too. It's both sloppier and less fulfilling to work his hand in your mouth, but he claws his fingers helplessly when you grind up into his grip and you break suction to smile.

You can't avoid his eyes, not when they're so big and open and bloody expressive. All the words that let him down, everything he fumbles through or stumbles over burns bright green when he looks up at you. You meant your hand to fist his hair, spur him on like he's spurred you, but you can't be rough with that face, just don't have it in you, so you stroke his manic hair and push him out with your tongue to brush a kiss on his knuckles.

When you pictured yourself shagging Harry Potter, it was always through the mattress. Hard and rough and violent on some level, the obvious evolution of your childhoods. Weren't you supposed to rip into each other? Wasn't this supposed to be some shoving match on the pitch that miraculously goes right? For all the pigtail pulling, all those scorching looks and mental-making tension, you're both ridiculously careful with each other and it's all rather like you've stepped out of your lives for this.

Like neither one of you can quite believe it's happening. Like you're both secretly terrified one wrong move will put you back at each other's throats in all the wrong ways.

You can't half believe he's stopped running, but even the dreams don't feel this good, nothing does but Harry.

He latches on to your left nipple, plays like it's his new favourite toy. You pull his fingers back into your mouth, tongue at his pinky because it's a late addition. Something about all that makes him lift his head. One dark brow hikes.

"All four, Malfoy?" He sounds so tremendously entertained, bone-deep happy and Rictusempra giddy. His grip shifts on your erection, measuring more than pleasuring, and before you can frown your confusion, he says, "Well, it's maybe a bit of ambitious, but if you don't want me tight, who am I to argue?"

You bite his hand. Tell him that by your measure, he's a tight-arse and always will be, great Gryffindor git. He laughs. Mouths your nipple, breath broken in a pattern it takes a moment for you to place. "_Je River Thames _you Ferret," he tells your chest and you're still laughing when he bites you back.

He hisses when you rim him, but it's nothing to do with Parseltongue. Tries to prepare himself, but you bat his hands away because frankly, you're looking forward to having Harry Potter's arse at long bloody last and you need no interference, thanks.

"Then what…the fingers…sucking…" He waves the hand you sucked, but your Harry's pretty good, you don't need the gesture for translation.

"Foreplay," you say, then tell him to belt up again or you'll gag him. You've better things to do with your tongue than set him straight and you're only too keen to prove it.

Fucking him with your tongue's fascinating. He makes these little noises you can't describe for all the vaults in Gringotts and you think you're addicted to them, really, because when he bites into his pillow and stops them, you miss them. Crave them. Snag your wand and Vanish the pillow just to hear them again.

Smooth muscle clamps on your tongue as you push in, and you think, "Fuck me, he's not a virgin, he can't be," but he's so impossibly tight and tense it takes ages to lick him relaxed.

He smells a little like warming potion you half-remember brewing. Giddy as you're feeling, you think maybe it's liquid Rictusempra, which would be just like him, wouldn't it, to have an arse that tastes like a bottled laughing hex? Really, it is. Speccy git.

It's musky and earthy and familiar, not so different from when you sucked him, only this is obviously not his cock you're working now. Different suction, different sounds, incredibly sensitive pucker to lap, and a whole new range of squirmy Harry when you do.

You don't kiss his arse. Maybe you're fucking him — at long bloody last, and with your tongue no less — but you're still Draco Malfoy and he's still Harry Bloody Potter, and there's nothing in the world that'll let you, Draco Malfoy, kiss Harry Bloody Potter's arse.

At least, not until he's kissed yours first.

About the time he's gone right proper potty, fisting sheets and finding new religions and such, you pull back. He protests in English and hissing and what you think might be French were it not incoherent babbling.

When you were sixteen and stupid, you thought you wanted Harry Potter like this, face down and waiting. You had so many stupid fantasies, spent so many wanks picturing Potter at your mercy, how you'd have him someday, and you've long since outgrown them, but seeing him like this calls them back and you hate the boy you were for everything he didn't understand.

You say, "Over, Potty, I want you on your back," because what you want to say is, "I want to watch you, I need to know it's you, I need to know this is real, I need to know you want this," and that's too sappy for words.

Even with the rimming, with everything you've done to relax him, he's tense when your head finds his hole. There's been lube and fingers working slow, careful, he should be stretched enough to take you, but you exert the slightest pressure and his eyes widen. Salazar on toast, he's got amazing eyes. See everything he's thinking, can't you? And oh, how addictive that is, too. Hooked on Harry, you think, and smile foolishly.

He smiles back. Tentative, but you'll take it. Bites his lip and nods you on, and as you slide in, you bite for him to catch the lovely little sounds he makes.

Fucking Harry Potter's nothing like you thought. Wordless, just ragged breaths and unspeakably erotic nonsensical sounds. Fluid, and you've no clue where this _grace_ came from, he's a tremendous clod usually, but he rolls into you and now you've got a rhythm going, it's not awkward at all. Careful — tender, your inner Hufflepuff says, but you're Slytherin, so it's "careful" — like you've spent your lives hurting each other and you're both doing all you can not to let it happen again.

It's exquisite. It's…it's flushed cheeks and green eyes blown wide, tangled hair on your pillow and mangled mouth under yours, slow and steady rock until Harry urges you on. It's innocence and earnestness and trust and affection and Harry leaking into your hand.

It's a little holy, actually, and you're so caught up in making Harry make those little sounds you like, seeing he doesn't over-torment his mouth, your orgasm sneaks up on you. Floods. When Harry comes in your hand, it cements the image and you think you just developed a serious kink for water, as well, what with rivers muttered into your chest and Harry flooding your hand.

"Jesus, Draco, Jesus," he says when you collapse on him. You'd roll off him, you're both sticky and hot and it can't be comfortable, but he wraps his arms around you like you held his knees over your forearms, with intractable strength and devotion to the cause. "Did you know?"

"I hoped," you say.

"River Thames, Ferret," he mumbles, half asleep already. You close your eyes. Think, "Well, it beats the one in Egypt."

And then you're asleep on naked Harry Potter and not in Canada, just exactly where you belong.

He's watching you sleep. Smiles a bit when you blink yourself awake. Touches you because he can, and you don't mind, you do the same to prove he's really there.

"Sorry," he says, and you can't for the life of you sort why. Well, you can, but if he means _that_, you'll hex him senseless yourself.

"Did you mean it? _This_?" If he didn't, you'll make Dark Git look innocent.

But he can't mean _that_, not when he's all smiling sweet and staring and touching gentle. Weren't you supposed to rip each other apart in furious lust? Odd, you'd always expected…

"The bit about keeping you, yeah. The bit about bollocksing up your trip? No." His grin turns rueful.

"Git," you murmur, and kiss him until he remembers where his tongue belongs.

He can't hide the sap when you pull back, but he blinks it clear fast. Says, "I'm not stupid, you know." You bite down on a smirk. You've seen him in Potions. "Canada." And he's laughing quietly as he shakes his head. You think you hear him snort, "The_River_ Thames, honestly, m'French s'not _that_ bad, git," but you don't want to go there just yet.

"Canada's a free and glorious country," you say, only slightly miffed he's joined Blaise in the plan mocking. Your current position's rather proof of success, you think. "French and all."

"M'sure it is," he says, lips twitching. Your hormones forget sometimes, the innate gitness of Harry James Potter, but you never will. "Might even get there someday. When, erm, you've nothing _tying_ you to England, yeah? No particular fascination with its rivers or anything."

Oh, oh, the leer that accompanies that verb does such wonderfully wicked things to your imagination. As does that entirely innocent expression that proceeds it.

"Permanently tied, am I?"

He thinks that over. "For the foreseeable future. Not done with you just yet, thanks."

You're still working up a suitable protest when he covers you with warm Harry blanket and snogs you breathless.

Your mother wants to know about the ring. Granger wants to know about the plans. Pansy wants to know about the proposal — Girl Weasley's put a tenner it was awkward, but she's wrong; it was Parseltongue and a mangled lip, and it was possibly the most brilliant sex you'll ever have in your life, none of which you plan to tell her, jealous witch — and Blaise wants to know about the shagging because as he says, now that it's started, it never seems to stop.

Longbottom's on about the flowers and Weasley's on about the food and Lovegood, she's still on about Nargles.

Harry shares your smirk. Only one wedding plan matters, really…

"S'going to be in Canada," you say, because it's legal there, no "partnerships", proper marriage, and Harry snickers a bit when you rest your head on his shoulder. Murmurs, "Not the Thames?" into your hair.

And because he's daft, because he's nine times of ten off in his own little world now he's no Dark Git to top, Harry caps your perfectly reasonable statement with some new irrationality of his own.

Looks at Weasley to pull his attention back from the catering question and says, "Just, erm, no salad, mate."

fin


End file.
